Crossing: Over
by Travithian Axile
Summary: Rewrite of TIAL. FF78 crossover. Jenova is not dead yet, and the Planet needs a soldier. And so it finds one in Sephiroth. But the Planet can't be sure who he'll serve, and is forced to drastic measures. 3: Meet the bad guys.
1. Prologue: Death and Rebirth

12/9/06: Is this a rewrite? Yes, this is. If you haven't already, check my profile for more information. Thank you very much.

(…)

**FINAL FANTASY VII**

**—CROSSING: OVER—**

**PROLOGUE:**

_**/DEATH AND REBIRTH/**_

He floated in darkness, waiting.

How long, he could not say. There was no sense of time passing, or of any feeling either; only gentle, continuous movement, the cool and quiet pressing down on his eyes and enfolding him in warm oblivion. Sometimes, there were the whispers, low and insistent and brushing his mind light as a spider's kiss, enough to jar him from his sleep before he was pulled under again, and the wise old eyes, watching and judging from behind and everywhere and nowhere.

He might have felt alarm. But his slumber had robbed him of all emotion, leaving only an—expectant—silence. Yes, expectance, and long slow patience.

/_He knows all these things but does not think them; it is as though the knowledge passed through his mind fleeting-quick like the shadow of a ghost, leaving behind their lingering remnants and he understands even as he hangs in dreamless nothing/_

When he awoke, finally, the sensation was gentle, almost languorous, layers of years and sleep and dust sliding away like silk, a smooth caress of whispering cloth. Then the pain came like a panther from the darkness, waiting and ready, and pounced upon him to rend and rip and snarl, and he opened his eyes to green luminescence and _screamed. _

There was a suggestion of space, vast and infinite and it hurt the mind with its invitation of forever and immortality. Loops of green light curled loose tendrils around him, a lover's touch, fine as a noble lady's best ribbon. But as he reached for it, in wonder, it drew back like a rabid dog, and burnt him.

He heard the whispers now, more clearly than ever, and for the first time the anger in them. Anger that was directed at him, crafted sharp and cold as the edge of a blazing sword, aimed right and true. They twisted and darted around him, the unseen whisperers, their eyes bright and eternal as stars, their chant of bitter hate filling the empty world around him.

He screamed, writhed and fought the merciless grip of the emerald flames, as they crawled up his limbs and set him ablaze without hurting him, darting wraithlike beneath his skin and creating weird, shifting patterns of light and shadow. Even as the agony tore at him, he looked down at himself and marveled, in a sleepy, vague manner, at the existence of his body, forgotten and discarded for so long, the pale, perfect limbs and elegantly tapering fingers, the strands of sleek metallic-hued hair that fell into his eyes and over his bare shoulders in a great, shimmering wave. It slid out of his hands like water, like velvet, heavy and smooth and beautiful, and something rose to the surface, a shadow in the blank plane of his mind—

_You shall not remember. Yet._

The mental hand slapped him roughly, cool invisible fingers stiff with fury and tangling viselike in his long hair. He howled anew, losing the thread of his awakening thought and sending it spinning into bloody chaos. Slowly he came to be conscious of the hatred, a great simmering brimming pool of _hate hate hate _that longed to reach in and rip him inside out, leaving him to spew his intestines and stomach and bones and tendons into emptiness and until he died in the pain. And there was wisdom too, wonderful and terrible, a sense of endless age and loneliness that, if fully comprehended, would drive him into shrieking madness with the concept, the vastness and alienation of it all.

_Who are you? _he demanded, even as the malevolent green light curled like snakes around the fragile bones of his wrists and sank their fangs in, pumping cold deadly venom into his veins. He jerked and shivered spasmodically like a mad thing, a wildly gyrating dancer trapped in an intricate, meaningless move, an animal caught in the jaws of a cruel steel trap and in the bonds of pain so intense it would tear off its own leg to flee from the nameless terror. But the only music here was his cries, faltering and primeval, the hushed, bitter whispers of the watchers, the trap the endless swirling glittering green threads spun by an unseen hand. Worse was the ignorance of _how _and _why_—the sheer illogic, the injustice of it all, suspended in frozen time wracked with suffering and not knowing. And so he asked, more in desperation that curiosity, _who are you?_

Laughter touched his mind. It could be kind laughter, or loving; but it was also wholly inhuman in its stark and unmitigated intensity, the way it crept into his skull sly and oily and stayed there like a stain upon his consciousness. The hatred grated like steel wire against his nerves, and suddenly his mouth was full of blood and he was spitting it out into the ether, feeling broken teeth cut across soft, bleeding gums, and there came an answer, black and thunderous and wrathful, like a storm into his mind.

_I am your mother. I am your father. Your creator, and I loved you as I loved all of mine. I wept with you in the dark secret hours when you couldn't even remember your own name, and I heard, all the times you called, all the times you couldn't stand the sight of a mirror. Then you had the gall to try to destroy me—ME—who has lived eons untold beyond your petty imaginings, little mortal—_

There were no words to describe the loathing, the complete and utter contempt in the voice.

_I don't know what you're talking about. _Defiance, even in the pain; it slashed into him harder and ate his insides with slavering gibbering fury as a reward.

_I know. That is how I have willed it to be. You have always been a puppet in life, my child, dancing to the whims of the puppet-masters. This should come as no surprise to you. You have complied with orders you knew were wrong, taken life against all conscience. Thus you will be _my _soldier then, _my_ perfect soldier, who will kill for me as you did for them, poor lost soul, benighted one…_

The voice was all the more terrible for the great, pulsing love that filled the emptiness of tone for a moment, deep and intense, as mysterious and unfathomable as the ocean depths. The whisperers called, _Traitor, traitor, _from the unseen shadows, and he felt as though he might have wept, at the betrayal; the tears of the mother, the sins of the son.

_There is still time for both of us yet, child, _the voice said into his ear, cold and syrupy-sweet, bitter and vengeful, like curdled milk and festering wounds. The green light moved, a stinging, mocking caress, a flexible tentacle of shimmering lines that rammed itself down his open mouth, down his throat and into his body, spreading like slow poison. He could not breathe, he did not need to; it was a horrible feeling, to be dead and not have your body know it; it panicked and screamed for air, his heart hammering like a gong until he thought it might twist free of his flesh and impale itself on his ribs. And all the time there was no pain at all, just a blank, cold numbness that he would have gladly exchanged for some sort of feeling whatsoever. It made him feel inhuman, a distant spectator watching with agonized fascination.

_Kill her for me._

Over and over again, a broken recorder hissing sibilant threats into his ear. Time was a distant memory in this plane, and yet he felt like forever had passed when everything was the same as it ever was. Then at last the questing tendrils of his tormentor withdrew, and his mind was a whimpering ruin of strewn memories. A hand touched him gently on the shoulder, and it seemed to ease his pain.

_Farewell, _the voice whispered, neither male nor female but just _there,_ and he felt the hand give him a push. Then he was falling, into the eternal void, and before the blackness came, softly, like a falling feather, he thought he heard a chorus of angels calling his name.

_**end Prologue.**_

**(…)**

22/9/06: Yes, I know I said I wouldn't have time to post anything, but my prelims just ended yesterday and so I've got a bit of time before I get catapulted back to the exam hall. So I couldn't resist finishing this prologue. I hope you agree with me that this is a much better version of TIAL.

Thank you.

T. Axile.

**NEXT CHAPTER: FROM THE NEW WORLD.**

………………………………………………………………………………………………


	2. Chapter 1: From the New World

**FINAL FANTASY VII**

—**CROSSING: OVER—**

**CHAPTER ONE:**

**_/FROM THE NEW WORLD/_**

He was walking through darkness, stumbling and unseeing. A voice was calling to him, guiding him, sometimes harshly, always insistent. The air was shot through with threads of silver-white, brilliant as stars, and though he would have liked to stop and look at them, the hands pushed and pulled and hit him painfully whenever he paused. He went on, his thoughts frozen, aware only of the flexing and contraction of muscles, the nothingness under his bare feet, and the overwhelming drive to keep on walking and walking until…

He saw the light. Light, at the end of an endless tunnel. He shambled on, and it spread and glowed, reaching out to engulf him in its luminance…

He woke up.

The walls were cold and white and sterile, awakening within him a twinge of unease. A breeze came in through a window somewhere, ruffling his hair. He sought to move, but his body felt stiff and strange, as though it did not quite belong to him, and remained chained by inertia to the bed he lay on. He struggled to speak; his throat was raw and his voice sounded and felt like a handful of needles being shoved down his mouth.

"…I…"

A stolid figure appeared in his blurring sight; he saw it only as a movement of color, white and gray and dark blue. When the person approached, the vision coalesced into a short, stocky woman clad in a turtleneck and white coat, her hair steel gray and bound up in a bun.

"Feeling better?" she asked, looking him over with clinical concern, shaking her head when he made a visible effort to sit up again. "No, don't move. I don't know what you were up to in the forests, but you hit your head hard."

"What…happened?" he articulated slowly, the words scraping themselves out of his vocal cords with screaming reluctance. A wave of nausea hit him, and he fought to orient himself, staring with rigid concentration at the spray of crow's feet, shaped by time and laughter, at the corners of the woman's eyes. She had many lines, her skin was weathered and tough and told of a long life.

She raised her eyebrows. "_You _tell me." In acknowledgement to his difficulty in speaking, she permitted him a sip of water. It felt better than wine and cool mountain streams. He navigated the water around his mouth and swallowed. "I don't remember…anything." It was as much news to him as well as to her; now that he really thought about it, he became conscious of the gaping void in his memories. There was no _before, _only now and the person that was himself lying in this hospital bed…

"Where am I?" he asked, now that the thought had occurred to him. "Is this a hospital?" The starched white sheets and the smell of disinfectant, even the spray of carefully arranged flowers at his bedside, he should have guessed…

"Well…yes and no." the woman…doctor… said. "You are in the infirmary, and this is Balamb Garden. One of our instructors found you out cold in the woods west of here." She looked taken aback when graced by his blank stare. "Balamb Garden?" she repeated, slowly and concisely, like talking to a child.

"I've never heard of the place," he said, puzzled. "_Should _I have? Is it some sort of national park?"

She lifted her eyes heavenwards. "A _park. _It's only one of the most famous mercenary institutes in the world. Say your name for me," she commanded abruptly.

He opened his mouth, ready to answer such an easy and obvious question, then hesitated. No response sprang to mind. For a split second his mind reeled, a spiral into thoughts of emptiness. _Angels calling his name…_His lips moved of their own accord. "Roth." He did not know where the name had come from; it felt naked and incomplete, an alien word dying stillborn upon his lips.

"I think," the doctor said flatly, with obvious sarcasm, "that we have a problem on our hands."

It was a few days before Dr. Kadowaki permitted him to leave the infirmary and take a walk around the Garden, and by then his long legs were restless and screaming for exercise. Even then, he had to return at night. The Garden was a huge place, larger than he had imagined, a home as well as a machine primed for war. Young children pulling at stiff collars and sweating under the sun trained along with experienced veterans at home in their uniforms. A fountain, designed purely for aesthetic purposes, sat in the middle of the compound. Students sat at benches lined around it and joked and talked between lessons.

Roth was fascinated by the idea. When the doctor had told him of the Garden's purpose, he had imagined a sterile building of steel and concrete, subdued whispers, and rigorous discipline. Finding that Balamb Garden was mobile had only been the first surprise. These students were not just soldiers, they had a life, and were encouraged to pursue it. Groups of girls walked past, giggling and talking of boys and the latest fashions; their male counterparts sneaked glances and small folded love notes. It was all surprisingly…_ordinary._

Until they lined up in the hall, childishness vanishing in the wake of a superior's command. They were disciplined then, saying nothing, eyes trained ahead, weapons snapping to hand. It was unsettling. Beneath each and every one of those young, smiling faces was the soul of a soldier, who wouldn't hesitate to kill him between one breath and the next. It…reminded him of something, like an itch he couldn't quite reach, in the back of his mind.

He turned away, strangely subdued, and perhaps a little afraid, and not as impressed with the Garden as he had been at first sight.

During the first days (_brief and transitory, a rainbow in a leaping stream, as he recovered and still remembered nothing) _his rescuer came to see him, not for sentimentality, as he was soon to discover, but for business. After the first opening courtesies, quite bluntly, she asked if he was interested in joining Garden.

"You killed that T-rex," Freya Blackthorn said, perching like a delicate sparrow at the corner of his bed, as though afraid it might break. She acted like she was all wire and hard angles, a contrast to the softer, more pleasant curves of her oval face and dark eyes. "Alone. We have many candidates, but not that much skill." And added, with almost cruel carelessness, "You don't seem to have anywhere else to go anyway."

"You're right," he agreed, after a pregnant pause, during which she stared and he plucked at the edge of his blanket with his long fingers. "I don't have anything." And he raised his eyes and said, "This seems…right, somehow. The atmosphere, I mean. The voices, the sounds…"

"Once a soldier, always a soldier," the instructor said nonchalantly. "That reminds me. I have something for you. Your sword. It's all broken up, but I suppose it might be some sort of clue." She reached over and tipped a bag onto the sheets , scattering long thin objects that seared Roth's eyes as they caught the afternoon sunlight and flashed argent fire into his face.

He pieced it together, laboriously, a unusual jigsaw puzzle that enflamed his voided memory with its familiarity, hours after Blackthorn had gone. Afterwards, he could see that it had once been very long, longer than an average man's height, long and slender and—

_(flickering like an extended claw in the sea of ninja black and scattering crimson in its wake. It purrs like a well-fed cat and—)_

—and heavier than what he would have expected, given the thinness of the blade. He imagined swinging it, clearing a roomful of enemies in one ferocious movement. He pressed his lips together as one piece left an oozing red line across his thumb. It was extraordinarily sharp.

His head hurt. For some reason, he felt like crying, like a little boy over a broken toy, as his fingers shuffled through the glittering shards. Dr. Kadowaki made him keep them in a satchel afterwards, when he refused to throw them away, and tutted over SeeDs' general carelessness when dealing with sharp objects. He barely listened to her, hearing instead the discordant voices within himself.

He handled the shattered sword with reverence, and they rested cold and heavy in his hands. Dead. It was a silly idea, when swords were never alive, and yet he found himself waiting for a call that never came.

A silly idea.

On the last day of his stay in the infirmary he looked at his reflection, really looked, in a handheld mirror that the doctor brought in, seeing with almost detached interest the long, narrow eyes (_green, too green to be entirely comfortable with)_, the narrow, angular features that might have been handsome by a little stretch of the imagination. To Roth's keen gaze, there was something subtly wrong with the order of his features, something strange and artificial, as though individual, pleasing aspects had been welded together into a dissonant whole, by someone who had gone shopping for ingredients and not really considered how it all went together.

Then he decided that, as usual, he was just being overly analytical, and set down the mirror. The bag containing his sword he picked up respectfully (_a dead body) _and went out into the pale morning sunshine, where Instructor Freya Blackthorn, and the start of his new life, was waiting for him.

A tendril of lazy satisfaction curled in his stomach, and he realized abruptly that he was happy, as he could never remember being, in the left-behind echo of vanished memories. The past was dead, but he was not, and dwelling on it would just bring him grief.

He smiled.

A continent away, something streaked through the air over a city of glass and steel, shedding bloody feathers like fat raindrops. It was too early to be awake, so the sleepless man was the only one who saw it, careening like a drunkard through the gray sky. He watched calmly, a glass of wine in hand, and when it landed, with surprising grace, into his backyard he put on his slippers and went downstairs.

_**end Chapter One.**_

30/10/06: Yes, I know the ending was a bit rushed, and so was the whole chapter but…I hope you enjoyed it anyway. I'm running out of time here, yet I, once again, found myself tempted by that unfinished chapter in my files. Anyway, my exams are over on 16/11/, and I can guarantee you Chapter Two in that very week or the next.

Until then, goodbye.

T. Axile.

**NEXT CHAPTER: SMOKE AND MIRRORS.**


	3. Chapter 2: Smoke and Mirrors

**FINAL FANTASY VII**

—**CROSSING: OVER—**

**CHAPTER TWO:**

_**/SMOKE AND MIRRORS/**_

He shaded his eyes and looked up, into the seething, boiling sky, the red, poisonous light so bright it hurt to gaze upon it for long. The tainted clouds parted for the writhing, mottled column that poured like a river of death from the heavens, upon the defenseless city. There was an air like apprehension and terror that he could almost taste, harsh and metallic, against the roof of his mouth. The path shook under his feet as though it would break apart at any moment; around him people ran and stumbled in a crazy ritual of fear, seeking—hopelessly—shelter from the nightmare that the arrival of the Lunatic Pandora had brought.

They fled before it. He ran towards it, the blade of his long sword slapping against the back of his thigh, screams and lamentations fading into the background as he concentrated on keeping his footing on the trembling ground. Monsters flashed past, in pursuit of victims that staggered in their long heavy robes—monsters from the moon, strange and convoluted, patchwork creatures cobbled together out of recognizable parts into an uneven whole. Then he would stop and kill them, easily—it all came so easily to him, he had to wonder—but they were only a few of many, and they still kept coming, that gateway of ravening beasts like a cruel judgment upon a country that had lived in complacent peace for all too long.

Somewhere, there was an explosion, and a shower of sparks bloomed, a red flower in a sky already streaked with colors of crimson and black. The monsters were becoming braver, as they surged ahead with little resistance. It had been too swift, too unlikely; even now, the militia was still gearing up, still preparing for something there was no preparation for, all the blood they had ever seen the stimulated stuff of sophisticated computers and artificial combat. He imagined, as he moved, the fancy, ridiculous armor hiding frightened, vulnerable faces as they were dispatched to fight a threat the likes of which their city had never experienced for decades, and he was briefly moved to sympathy—then the fleeting thought was gone as overhead a flaming car fell barely inches away to imminent immolation upon the desert floor. There was time enough to think upon such matters later.

He only had to follow the screams. The blue plating of the ground was already violet with blood when he arrived, but there were still others, an assortment of men and women and children, thrown together by shared danger. One of the Toramas was busy, gnawing at what looked nauseatingly like a human leg, as its fellows circled around their intended prey. He came up silent as a passing breeze, but some animal instinct, some glint of the light, perhaps, brought two of them upon him, the peculiar red light shining horribly on slavering fangs and disturbingly intelligent eyes, their tails flicking whip-like between their hind legs.

They attacked at once, one from each side. With barely a thought he had leapt, his legs flexing instinctively and launching him high. They halted, momentarily thrown, as he executed a half circle in the air and extended the blade in the wake of his turn. The tip of the sword grazed along the floor, throwing up sparks, as it cut through one Torama and the hind leg of another with nearly inhuman precision. Then gravity reclaimed him and he was back in a crouch. The injured Torama thought to rush at him, but was deterred by the sudden loss of its limb, abruptly realized. It went sprawling in agony and he finished it off with a neat thrust, glancing up in time to see more springing at him as his actions confirmed him as a genuine threat in their minds.

He retreated away from their immediate radius, and they landed a metre away, their claws briefly scrabbling for purchase on the slick surface of the floor. One Torama slipped on the blood of its comrade, momentum carrying it a little further than intended. He soon gave the animal a cause for regret regarding its mistake by systematically removing its head. The 'meal' was abandoned; the remaining three gave him their undivided attention now, unheeding of the fact that the humans were taking advantage of their unexpected break by beating a hasty retreat.

They moved faster than he had given them credit for. His eyes had barely registered their displacement when one of the Toramas was worrying at his ankles, sharp teeth cutting the tough fabric to ribbons and getting uncomfortably close to his skin. He lashed out with a powerful kick, the toe of his boot catching the startled animal in its soft underbelly and sending it flying, along with the shredded remnants of its mouthful of cloth and a chunk of flesh. He felt the wound burning, dripping blood into his shoes, but the pain was soon buried with the swiftness of long experience.

He spun around, swayed a step back, in the same movement, as the paws of the lead feline braced hard against the ground and launched it towards him. He swept the long sword through the air, catching the side if its head with the flat of the blade, knocking its flight askew. The huge cat landed awkwardly, its feet splayed and scrambling for stability in a last, desperate move of defiance, as his sword cut the air to its neck and ended its struggles. Then, back again, to the next enemy, its breath already warm on his face—he stretched out his arms and embraced it, and the Torama thrashed and spat hot saliva before the long blade buried through its middle finished the job. He removed the skewered animal, and was glancing about for the last one when white-hot pain blazed like a brand in the middle of his back, throwing him forward, a limp rag doll—dimly, he heard a last explosion, booming hollowly, ominously, in the near distance. Funeral bells. He felt his vision fade as his body throbbed, becoming less and less distinct as the pain gradually eased.

He closed his eyes upon the view of the burning city and wondered, ruefully, if they had to make it _that _realistic.

"End simulation of Lunar Cry," a cool female voice informed him as he pushed himself, wincing, from the floor. "Your scores will be logged into your account in a few minutes' time."

Roth shook the stiffness out of his muscles and removed the visors, gloves, and various other pieces of equipment from his person. He was in a fairly large, white-walled room, about the size of a decent bungalow. The monsters, the fires, and the city of Esthar—they'd all been an illusion, an incredible projection layered over his mind. The sword was real, though, as real as the muscles he'd wrenched during the midair spin. Gingerly he padded over the scratched linoleum floor, running his fingers over the old scars and dings in the walls. Several of the previous users had been rather enthusiastic; in some places whole chunks had been taken out. Blackthorn had told him that the training rooms needed to be repaired extensively and regularly, and catered only to the most dedicated students, due to the combined reasons of expense and the realism of the exercise. A lot of students hadn't been able to take it.

He was halfway across the room when the door at the end opened. Previously marked red, it now glowed green—safe, the sim was over. It admitted three instructors, two females in the standard blue uniform, the last, a man, dressed casually in gray slacks and a white jacket. Roth had only met them earlier that morning, and while Keire Wulcan seemed nice enough, though a little careless in his attitude towards regulation, Blackthorn's companion, Erin Roheiz, had pratically radiated hostility. It was only later he learnt that her behavior towards him was the rule, rather than the exception—she treated everyone, except perhaps the Headmistress, as though she couldn't care less. It was enough to cement a negative impression in anyone's mind, but he knew the risks of strong judgments without adequate proof, and had accepted it as one of the little peculiarities that every normal human being indulged in.

"What got me?" he asked, distinctly annoyed, the memory of the pain still a fresh ghost lurking in his back. He decided firmly against straightening for some time.

"Flying shrapnel," answered Wulcan, his red-brown eyes gleaming with what seemed a little too much gruesome relish, "went right through you like a jet on crack. Whoosh! And you were doing so well too."

He gave Roth a commiserating look, but his sly, boyish features, still retaining vestiges of inappropriate delight, didn't look too convincing. Roth read him as a somewhat ambiguous personality, one moment completely serious, the next an overgrown, enthusiastic child. He seemed to be able to flip between both by pressing some internal switch with ease. Roth wondered idly which one was the more 'real' to him.

"There is only one chance on the battlefield," Roheiz said, her dry, icy manner in stark contrast to Wulcan's inherent exuberance. "You will not escape so easily in real life. Wulcan, as ever, I emphasize the need for you to set a proper example, both in and out of the classroom." She gave his haphazard attire a pointed look.

Wulcan just grinned in a lopsided way that told of many conflicts between both of them, and dismissed that history. "Erin…you may emphasize it, and I may hear what you're saying…in that case, may I emphasize the need for _you _to grow a sense of humor, both in and out of your classroom? Some of your students have come up to me in droves crying for a transfer!" His grin broadened, and something about its pure and unmitigated glee tugged disturbingly at Roth's memory.

Roheiz proceeded to ignore this, and Blackthorn jumped into the new silence with authority. "I think we may all say, even _you, _Erin, that what we have just watched was really excellent." She smiled at Roth, but he could clearly see the curiosity and the seeds of something darker behind that smile. There was only a brief flash, but its existence sent threads of faint dread darting through his mind. The stern instructor continued, "Normally we only accept students after a thorough background check and an evaluation of combat skills. That second condition has been satisfied. The first, however…as you understand, this is close to impossible, considering what seems to be your non-existence in every record I've looked through, and the…loss of your memory."

That pause. Roth's eyes narrowed. "I'll try my best to remember," he said with pseudo-innocence. "But now, my mind's an utter blank."

Blackthorn met Roth's gaze steadily. "Under the circumstances, I believe that some caution on our part will, hopefully, not be met by offence. We will gladly accept you as the skilled fighter that you are, Roth…but we're putting some faith into you here, and you'll, just, well…have to make some concessions."

If she put it that way…Roth gave a reluctant nod. "It's probably just as well," he admitted. "For all I know, I was a mass murderer before I got hit on the head. So, what will I have to do?"

"We will discuss it later, in more suitable surroundings," Blackthorn said, glancing around the training room. "Additionally, all of us, with the exception of Keire, have classes now. I will see you later, after your medical. Keire will take you to where you need to go."

"I will?" the dark-haired man queried, pointing at himself.

Blackthorn raised a brow at him. "It's been an interesting morning, Roth. Thank you. Let's go, Erin." The two women went off, leaving Wulcan and Roth together. The male instructor brushed a hand through his wild hair and smiled at Roth. "It's nothing much, really. The residing doctor just pokes and prods a bit, makes some funny comments phrased in the most negative way possible. You don't like doctors? You look a bit pale."

"Do I?" Roth had, indeed, been feeling an unreasonable amount of trepidation, for no immediately available cause he could discern. Annoyed at himself for revealing this weakness, and even more annoyed at feeling annoyed, he shrugged the matter away. "I'll be fine. As you say, it is nothing much."

Wulcan lapsed into silence, seeming to sense—and respect—his companion's natural reticence. For the most part of the brief walk he maintained his serious aspect, breaking the silence only to point out the few places of interest they passed by. At the infirmary, familiar to Roth now after so many days of being bedridden, Wulcan excused himself, saying, "Give Arne my regards," before walking away.

A young doctor was on hand to receive him, whisking him to one of the many side rooms in the corridor. "Ever since the second Sorceress War—oh, forgive my bad manners, I'll explain soon—we've had a vast influx of students, all of them coming down with flus, fevers, whatnot every other week. It was enough to make anyone go crazy, even Kadowaki. So we expanded the medical wing, and brought in some healer Guardian Forces, even, to complement the staff. You can't remember GFs either? Must have been a pretty hard knock you got then."

He was friendly, if a little too inclined to talk. Still he was pretty informative about some historical points Roth was fuzzy on, and he gave a five-minute summary of the Sorceress Wars on Roth's request. As they walked, the glint of light off the tag pinned neatly over the young man's heart caught Roth's eye, and he shifted his head slightly to read: LEONHEART, ARNE.

"Instructor Wulcan said to pass his regards to you," Roth inserted during a brief break in the young doctor's lecture.

"Oh, Keire!" Leonheart laughed, a low, pleasant sound. "He's my best friend, and our schedules have been clashing kind of lately, so it's been hard to just sit down for a quiet talk. Well, that's military life. Sorry, I guess I'm talking too much again. It's from my mother's side. Let's get down to the point of your visit, shall we?"

Up until then, Roth had been too absorbed in Leonheart's account of the turbulent events of two decades ago, but now with that distraction gone, the old fear came back, through the cracks in his rigid discipline and the barriers that held back his memories. He imagined that fear, bleeding like black oil through his mind, leaving indelible stains that echoed with pain and loss. It was with an effort he wrenched his thoughts back to reality, as Leonheart dug though his drawer with nimble fingers, and asked many questions that he answered with as much of his usual conciseness that he could muster.

(_There was a white coat there too. You can see a lot of things on white.)_

He jumped slightly, in his chair, and Leonheart looked at him, startled, those finely chiseled features showing just a hint of concern. "Anything?"

He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

"Okay…" Leonheart dragged the word out, clearly waiting, and dropped it when he remained stubbornly obtuse. "I'm going to take some of your blood now. Just a little bit. Do you mind?" The doctor's hands dangled beneath the surface of the table, and z rustled. Roth shot him a glare and said, "I'm not a _child._" It sounded too defensive to his ears. The mix of jumbled thoughts and discordant images roared, louder than ever. A veritable sea pounded behind his temples.

(_People like him wear black to hide the stains. He wears his sins defiantly, like a badge of pride. Blood stands out so very _vividly _on white, doesn't it?)_

His expression must have changed, because Leonheart was suddenly up and out of his chair, gripping his shoulders hard, speaking hard and fast. Roth's awareness seeped back slowly, so steeped it had been within his own mind. He let out a breath, knowing how he must look, wan and small and…frightened. A…child.

He shivered.

"I hope you're back with me," Leonheart said, looking relieved and moving away. "I know when to pry and when to leave sleeping dogs lie—at least for the time being, anyway." His tone became gentle. "It's no weakness to have suffered some skeleton or other hanging in your closet, Roth. If you feel bad, you can say so. Something happened, didn't it? Something that still bothers you even if you can't remember it."

Roth was rapidly overcoming the shock, and somewhat embarrassed, now sought to reclaim some ground. "Well, I can hardly divulge to you my painful secrets and get a load off my chest," he returned, talking refuge in sarcasm. He slouched and took up a more comfortable position in his chair, striving for relaxation.

"No one told you to," Leonheart said, amused. "I just said that when you feel uncomfortable about something, don't go all defensive and secretive next time." His face briefly darkened. "It's not just for your own sake, either. Your face, back then…I think you could have _killed_ me, Roth, if I'd been as obtuse as you are."

Roth refused to show how shaken he was. "Thank you, doctor. I'll take your advice into consideration. I think I should be going."

"Yes," Arne Leonheart said. Suddenly, much like Wulcan, he looked much more intent, less engaging, his eyes thoughtful. He did not offer to show Roth to the exit.

The moment Roth was out of the infirmary, he leaned against a handy wall, taking in a deep breath. _What the hell is wrong with me?_

His infuriating memory chose that moment to release an answer.

(_I wouldn't really want to know.)_

_**end Chapter Two.**_

18/10/06: Midnight! And past. My exams are over, thankfully, and I'm back with a vengeance—or at least, with several incomplete stories that need to be completed. Thanks to anyone who reviewed, or at least read this, and I apologize for any strain suffered by your various sets of patience. After this I'll be working on Alone and hopefully post some stuff for a new favorite fandom of mine (Death Note), so Chapter 4 might be a little long in coming…but it WILL come, no question of that.

Ah, sweet holidays. Bye now. I need to go to school for some graduation thing tomorrow, then its bye bye school. I don't ever intend to go back unless I absolutely have to. (HA! Take that!)

See ya. T. Axile.

**NEXT CHAPTER: Walking The First Tier.**


	4. Chapter 3: Walking the First Tier

**FINAL FANTASY VII**

—**CROSSING: ****OVER****—**

**CHAPTER THREE:**

_**/walking the first tier/**_

_For the first and last time, the sorcerers of the land called Hyne to a duel, challenging his right to the rulership of this world. They boasted shamelessly of their accumulated wisdom and power, their immortality, and their inhuman beauty and grace. And it came to pass that Hyne was angered at their presumption, and showed unto them the greatness and eternity of the universe,, and their role in it, that was smaller than the smallest speck of sand upon the beach and less significant than the humblest ant. And their minds were blasted by this great truth of their existence, which was nothing, and they fell from grace, and some fell deeper, into the refuge of madness._

_And from the fallen bodies, spread like dead birds on the sand, the first humans rose and crawled on their feet, through the lightening dusk. _

—_The Lay of Hyne, Chapter Five _

This room was dark, with only the faintest sliver of light peeking through the crack between the door and the frame. Occasionally that crack would widen, spilling a long slash of brilliance into the murk, and a shadow would move across the room to an empty chair, and the door pulled to again. The air was heavy with silence and expectation—and there was fear as well, thick and choking like mist, but these were men to whom fear and ambition went hand in hand, who never gained anything without losing something in reason. So they gambled, daring the odds, and waited in the dark, each pretending not to see the other, while inwardly they seethed with jealous insecurities and a million petty or elaborate plots. It was less a game than habit now, these little intrigues they played, but perhaps something in them sensed that this time, it was no joke. It was _real. _

In the silence the floor hummed and vibrated beneath expensive patent leather shoes, and the men listened, and thought of the knife's edge between failure and success, and how sometimes the smallest things determined which side you fell off to. Sometimes, you just never knew, not until the knife had dropped, and everything was ended. This time, though, it might almost be worth it.

The last man entered, and he shut the door, cutting off the light completely. With a measured tread he slid into the last vacant chair, accompanied by a creaking of leather. The tension in the room weighed down, and more chairs creaked as their occupants leaned forward, perhaps subconsciously, their eyes straining in the dark to see the vague outline of their leader's face against the gloom.

"Gentlemen," the Leader said softly. "Thank you all for gathering here today. I understand that a certain amount of risk is involved for every one of you, and I appreciate this proof of your trust in me." A brief stir, in the dark—perhaps he'd moved his hands, in those graceful gestures that so characterized his personality—gentle, soft-spoken, calm and cold as a mountain spring.

No one replied. They had extended their trust—now they waited for the results, with the greedy, hungry anticipation of men who had much to lose. At a word from their leader, they rose from their chairs in a flurry of noise, and filed out through another door at the far end of the room, that opened only at the touch of the Leader's hand and a whispered word, too soft to be heard. There were stairs beyond, winding down into deeper darkness, and glow-rods embedded at ground-level emitted a silvery cast, bright enough for the men to walk down safely. As they walked down in constrained silence, the air grew colder, crisp enough to be noticeable, hovering at the edge of comfort. One or two tucked their arms around themselves, nervousness flitting over their faces as a brief crack in their veneer showed.

The humming grew louder, resonating through their bones. The walls shivered around them, and conscious of the crushing weight of the ground above their heads, the small group entered the chamber at the end of the stairs tentatively. Here there was the whisper-creak of oiled machinery, and soft white light that welled into being as they stepped over the threshold, illuminating the great hulking thing that occupied much of the space, encased within a clear glass shell gilded with rainbows. Fat wires ran to and fro like veins, feeding the busy machine, keeping it alive and humming that steady, insistent sound, like the buzz of a storm of locusts, setting the teeth on edge and gradually corroding thought.

"It's complete," the Leader said, and he said this with pride, as though he was speaking of his own child. The flashing lights reflected in the lenses of his glasses, discoloring his face, giving him a strange, mad appearance. With a theatrical flourish, he approached the whirring machine, gazing upon it with admiration.

It was not a beautiful thing, even half-hidden as it was behind the glimmering glass. It put one in mind of a bloated spider, crouching in a web of steel-gray strands, greedy and hungry. At its very center, a globe of brilliant light hovered, sparks leaping off its writhing surface. It pulsed like a living heart—the heart of the machine. Around it metal appendages cradled it protectively, keeping it half-closeted from view. It was almost like looking into the sun, and seeing rainbows, and other, alien incomprehensible colors branded into the back of your eyelids.

"It works?" someone whispered, in awe.

"I have her assurance," the Leader said, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Try it, gentlemen."

One of the men murmured a few words, and made a practiced gesture at the wall. For a moment there was a shimmer between his hands, and the faint stink of ozone. There was a flare of orange, as though a bulb had burst, and smoke coiled out, snakelike, from his fingers. The man stared down in astonishment, then, slowly, a grin spread out over his face. "Marvelous," he breathed, blowing away the smoke from his hands.

"I promised you, did I not?" the Leader said complacently. "I have made my move, gentlemen—it's time for you to respond."

One by one, the other men offered him the traditional gesture of fealty—fist to their lips, then their foreheads, then their hearts. After that, there would be no going back. This gesture was the highest honor that could be accorded anyone in their society—it meant _we are in this together. _It meant _you can have all that I can give. _They made the pledge with varying degrees of certainty, some of them eyeing the others, stealing assurance from their presence. The Leader took note of these, filing the names away in his mind.

"So then," he said amicably, glad that he didn't have to have this batch of allies killed. "Shall we talk business, gentlemen?"

…………………………………………………………………………………………

"So you want _me _to keep an eye on that kid?" Keire asked doubtfully, slurping noisily away at his drink. "Real can of worms you've opened there, huh?"

"I mean it, Keire," Arne said shortly, poking absently at his noodles. "It wasn't just a bad experience at the local dentist's. There was this _look _on his face—I'd never seen so much fear and anger on a person's face before." He fell silent, still playing with his chopsticks, until Keire nudged him, having investigated the bottom of the cup thoroughly for some time with the straw.

"He's not my responsibility," Keire said. "Blackthorn is already keeping her eagle eyes on him, and if there's anything to dig out, Blackthorn will."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Arne sighed, finally beginning on his meal. "Blackthorn sacrifices sensitivity for efficiency. That boy…if there was truly something horrible going on, that might explain his amnesia—or possibly, selective memory? Maybe the truth should never be known."

"Jeez, you're so melodramatic, Arne," Keire drawled, removing his straw and systematically shredding it into plastic bits. "It's like something out of a film, isn't it? Boy mysteriously drops in out of nowhere, has a dark past that he can't remember, and mad sword skills. He regains his memories and no doubt saves the world while he's at it. I think you've read too many books, Arne, like your mother." The young doctor opened his mouth to voice a retort, but Keire cut across him. "Nothing sinister is in the works, unless it's your imagination. I should think Roth wants to regain his memory as much as the next person. It's part of his identity, no matter what he has experienced. Let Blackthorn do her job and we'll stick to ours, okay?"

"I'm asking this as a friend," Arne said earnestly. "I can't do it myself because he'll never feel comfortable around me now after what went on yesterday. Come on, Keire. It won't hurt you."

Keire snorted. "He's not going to be in any of my classes. I teach the gunblade; he's using a katana, and that's under Erin Roheiz. The Queen of _Bitch," _he added, with feeling, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly.

Arne blanched. "That's worse."

The instructor sighed, and tossed the mutilated remains of the straw on the table. "It'll be fine, Mister Kindness. So he's got an issue about doctors. You can, I don't know, trade that white coat in for something else. Don't look so doctorly. Seriously, we've got enough on our plates, what with the kidnapping of the sorceress and everything without a problem kid under our feet."

Arne winced. "Keire, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been so presumptuous."

"Don't apologize for being you." Keire heaved another sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Damn…that girl was only, what, eighteen next month? How is your mother doing?" he added, his annoyance melting into sympathy.

"Better," Arne said with some relief. "It wasn't her fault she nearly died from that illness a couple years back, but she's been feeling guilty about passing on the sorceress power to that girl. As you know, my mother's never really liked being a sorceress, but she _had _managed to accept it, and that happened…" Arne frowned and knitted his brows. "But she's feeling better now," he reiterated firmly.

"Good to hear it." Keire rose to his feet, bestowing a warm smile on his friend. "I've got a class starting now. I'm glad I was able to catch you on lunch break. You should relax more, pal." With a parting wave, he disappeared into the crush of students and instructors leaving the cafeteria in droves.

Arne sat still for some time, before shoving away his half-finished food. Gathering up his white coat from where it had been draped over his chair, he put it on, officially declaring the end of his break, and marched back towards the infirmary. So Keire and his fellow instructors were too busy to care about one person. Well, he was a doctor, not even a proper SeeD, and he would continue to do what he had always done—care.

His skin crawled as he remembered how Roth had looked at him and seen something else, some terrible sight that had distorted his facial features completely into a mask of feral rage. And then the door had closed, sealing away the terror, as surely as the confusion had bloomed on Roth's features or his fisted, poised hand had fallen open like a flower, falling limply.

Arne knew that doctors could commit atrocious acts simply by standing by and watching, and worse by not healing but hurting. Sometimes students seriously injured in overenthusiastic sparring and in the Training Center were brought to him, and he could feel the weight of their lives on him then. It was easy to be corrupted by that power, to forget why, exactly, lives were so important, when they could be held godlike in your hands. It wasn't hard, imagining himself hurting someone, not out of malice, but curiosity and detachment.

He pulled the coat closer around himself, repressing a surge of revulsion, and quickened his steps as he noted the time on his watch. A few stragglers raced past him in the wake of their fellow students, dodging passers-by deftly and recklessly. He was at the head of the path leading to the infirmary and striding on when a hand reached out and caught his sleeve. "Sir, a moment of your time?" a voice requested politely.

Startled, Arne spun around and stepped back involuntarily when his eyes fell upon Roth, standing military-straight against the wall. He forced his tense body to relax, and managed a smile. "Sure. Is this about your memories…?"

"It's about yesterday." Roth didn't smile back—his face was as blank a façade as ever, revealing nothing. "I am here to apologize for my inconsideration. You were only trying to help, after all." He bowed slightly, an oddly formal move for someone his age. "I appreciate it."

Arne couldn't help noticing the way Roth was speaking the words, precise and carefully enunciated, as though by rote. He frowned reflexively—insincerity was a pet peeve of his. Nevertheless, the boy had gone out of his way to seek him out, and that at least showed some remorse, or unease, on his part. "That's fine. I can tell you've got a lot of skeletons in that closet." He paused, unable to resist. "Are you still interested in regaining your memories, knowing that you might have blocked them out of your own volition, given that they seem to be of a painful nature?"

"Naturally," Roth answered with barely any hesitation, other than a flicker of his eyes. He had anticipated the question and prepared his answer beforehand, Arne thought with irritation, as Roth went on, "Any part of myself is not worth throwing away. I am confident in my ability to cope with whatever trauma incurred. It is useless to run from the past. It always catches up with you."

"I can see you've thought deeply about this," Arne responded, with some sarcasm. Roth did not rise to the bait. He stared at Arne with his strange green eyes, and folded his hands neatly at his waist. "Of course. It is very important to me." Then, with finality, he added, "But perhaps it is a matter better discussed with my psychiatrist, Dr. Leonheart. Thank you for your time." Without further ado he turned and walked away, ending the conversation with an abruptness that bordered on rudeness.

It took more than that to offend Arne. _So you're shaken too, aren't you? _He thought, his frown deepening. _But an independent character like you, who won't admit it…the best psychiatrist in the world isn't going to help when you won't give the right answers._

He turned and entered the infirmary, and the glass doors slid shut behind him.

_**end Chapter Three.**_

29/12/07: Wow. Finally it's done. It took ever such a long time to write this, mostly because this is the third version, it isn't Sephiroth-centric and I kept losing the previous ones. Anyway, another slow chapter, so sorry, and to those people who have already read TIAL, there probably isn't going to be anything new for a while. Apologies :(

No new chapters for a while, either, because I'm still struggling with Chapter 11 of Alone and it's going to take me some time, and I'm going back to school next Wednesday. Oh well…

Next time (hopefully soon, like next month soon), T. Axile.

**NEXT CHAPTER: The Second Take**


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